


bottle to the head, finger on the trigger

by foldingcranes



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Canon, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22456087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foldingcranes/pseuds/foldingcranes
Summary: And slowly, in whispers, in dark corners, in the battlefield of his own mind, Jack would beg, please please please,my kingdom for a drink.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	bottle to the head, finger on the trigger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Soldier 76 zine!

Aunt Laura held his hand hard enough to cut off the circulation. Jack didn’t mind. He stayed quiet during the entire service; calm eyes fixed on his father’s urn. Laura cried a lot, loud sniffles and sobs. She was only twenty-two, he was nine years old. They were a couple of kids clinging to each other, an orphaned boy and a grieving little sister stuck together.

“We’re gonna be okay, Johnny,” said Laura, her voice low and sweet, cracking at the edges. Her eyes were red and swollen and her nose runny, her dark hair lifelessly framing her sad face, lines already marring her skin, as if they magically appeared there the day she had been informed her brother had choked on his own vomit and she was now the sole guardian of his kid nephew.

_ We’re gonna be okay,  Johnn _ _y_. That’s what Jack’s dad said on the last day of sitting shiva, the candle for Jack’s mother long burnt off. His eyes had been dull and his hand, big and strong and warm on Jack’s back, shook with grief and exhaustion. Jack had sobbed, then wrinkled his nose at the smell of whiskey clinging to his father’s clothes as they hugged.

He never stopped smelling like that.

**

The serum coursed like fire under his skin, swimming in his veins not unlike hot lava, burning and delivering the unwanted gift of a fever that never seemed to end, making Jack clench and unclench his fists and ask, to no one in particular, for something, anything to soothe the ache, to quiet down the fire, to numb him down until nothing existed. 

And slowly, in whispers, in dark corners, in the battlefield of his own mind, Jack would beg,  _ please please please, my kingdom for a drink _ .

**

Jack Morrison only knew one way to mourn: a guitar, a sad tune, maybe a cigarette or two. A bottle of whiskey.

The sky had gone from bronze-colored to almost black, littered with stars. The smoke cleared hours ago, and the city was silent in the way only destruction could guarantee. Nothing but debris, Omnic carcasses and gory human bodies. Jack patched up survivor after survivor at the temporary medical station, bone and flesh and blood blurring together until he didn’t even blink at fractured skulls, missing limbs and hemorrhages.

“Fuck,” Jack said, “ _ Fuck _ . I’m fucked up.”

“Aren’t we all?” Ana’s voice came up behind him. By this point, Jack knew when to expect her, so he wasn’t surprised. She always had his back, and he always had hers. It was the way they worked.

It was why, when he finally opened his flask of whiskey, he let her have the first sip and then immediately followed her after, the burn in his throat instantly comforting. Just like her fingers on his wrist.

**

_ Strike Commander, what were your thoughts on Overwatch’s most recent mission? What’s your response to the accusations of disrespected sovereignty? What are your thoughts on the rumor of Blackwatch agents violating the Geneva convention? _

No comment.

No comment, no comment, no comment.

“You gonna let them do that to you, uh?” Gabriel snarled, “Gonna let them eat you alive?”

“Gabe,” Jack grunted. “My office. You owe me a report and an explanation. And full disclosure.”

“I fucking owe you shit—”

“ _ Gabe.” _

“Why do I have to explain myself to you? I went there, I saved lives, I protected our people—you know I’m right, Jack, if you just took the time to remove that stick up your—”

“Why do you insist on making things harder for me?!”

And when they ran out of words, when silence fell like a heavy blanket, when Gabriel left without a gentle word and the slam of a door, Jack uncapped the bottle he kept hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk and drank until his throat no longer felt scraped raw from screaming, until the buzzing in his head quieted down, until the tremors in his body stopped, until he liked himself enough again to think that, maybe, just maybe, tomorrow could be a better day. A kinder one.

**

The day Gabriel left felt like any other.

There was no black hole in the living room, no gaping hole in the middle of the bed.

There was just a closet with more space than before. An empty drawer. A dust-covered, too well-stocked kitchen pantry and a fridge filled with rotting things.

There were endless hours of mindless TV on weekends and books that no longer offered refuge or pleasure.

There was a cold bed.

A lonely toothbrush.

A bottle of Jack for Jack.

**

Jack Morrison mourned in the only way he knew how to mourn.

He lit a candle.

He numbed himself for seven days.

He prayed half-heartedly and sloppily.

He went to bed with Gabriel’s name on his lips and the picture of the Overwatch headquarters burned inside his eyelids. Woke up in a panic to the feeling of flames licking at his skin, to fire in his veins, to pain. Took a drink to numb the pain. Took a drink to ease himself back to sleep.

Jack took a drink, and went under.

**

Jack’s candle and Gabriel’s candle and Ana’s candle, they all burned.

Soldier Seventy-Six kept away from the fire and stuck to bullets and fists, to cold concrete, to the unattachment that came with drifting, to the ruthless drive that accompanied the want for revenge, for justice, for at least one fucking bit of payback. To broken ribs and broken hearts and nostalgia and loneliness and the meaningless, thankless comfort of one drink turned too many.

It was the only way Jack knew how to mourn.

**Author's Note:**

> You can kick my ass [here](https://twitter.com/foldingcranes).


End file.
